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Rossignol	By : Savaial Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 5240 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Rossignol
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Ch 4
- 5-Ch 5
- 6-Ch 6
- 7-7
- 8-Ch 8
- 9-Ch 9
- 10-Ch 10
- 11-Ch 11
- 12-Ch 12
- 13-Ch 13
- 14-Ch 14
- 15-Ch 15
- 16-Ch 16
- 17-Ch 17
- 18-Ch 18
- 19-Ch 19
- 20-Ch 20
- 21-Ch 21
- 22-Ch 22
- 23-Ch 23
- 24-Ch 24
- 25-Ch 25
- 26-Ch 26
- 27-Ch 27
- 28-Ch 28
- 29-Ch 29
- 30-30- Epilogue
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- 5
I bowed a melancholy little tune as I replayed the events that led me to have visitors for the first time in years.

Christine…

She was as lovely as she'd ever been, perhaps even more so. Married life suited her. She looked happy despite the unpleasant reason for her visit. Her eyes were bright, lively, not a shelter for shadows and fear. She'd been sorry to imagine me dead. I couldn't understand that; my death meant her freedom, her salvation from dark music and even darker passion. I had drained every last bit of life from her, how could she have been sorry to be rid of me?

Raoul de Chagny. He had the most reason to hate and fear me, but I rather doubted his passions ran that hot now. He'd won, after all. He knew I would never, ever hurt Christine. I wondered though how he could bear the idea of leaving his sister with a monster. It made me question how much he felt responsible for her. If I had a sister I would certainly not leave her with someone like me.

Celeste Lescot was an ill used woman if I'd ever seen one. Her plight stirred me to sympathy else I would never have agreed to take her in. The pitiable, bedraggled thing had been hauled from a madhouse and then immediately thrust into my care. The poor little child hadn't even the voice to complain.

God has to have his little laugh.

The science of physical traits passed from one generation to the next always fascinated me; I was not surprised the girl was attractive. What was manly in Raoul was delicate on her... She was subtle and almost fragile. To be fair though, I thought she might only look like she would shatter. She had to be made of stern stuff, really, to get this far. She seemed to still have her wits about her, which was no small achievement when one has been sequestered with the insane.

I missed a note.

Putting the violin away, I sat down on the hearth and stared into the flames. My guest had been quiet two hours now. I hoped she'd had the strength to bathe; she'd looked disheveled and filthy. A bit shell-shocked too, to my reckoning. Christine had surely wanted to do all she could for her; she'd hovered over her like a mother hen. They were probably close in age. I wondered if Celeste was the baby of the family.

It made me smile to think of the way Raoul and Christine had reacted to me standing behind them at the lake. They certainly hadn't suspected me to be living. I wondered sometimes if I was. As a real ghost I might carry on much the way I always did; only I might be more inclined to maliciousness with such a free hand. The unattractive part was I would have to spend an eternity underneath the opera. As far as I knew, ghosts didn't wander much.

I had a guest again...

Celeste Lescot was no ordinary guest. I would have to be very careful what I did or said to her. I took responsibility to wounded creatures very seriously.

I heard Christine's door open and stood, my ears pricked for movement. Maybe the young madam found herself thirsty? Her footfalls came slowly down the hall. When she appeared I started to avert my eyes, for she was dressed in only a nightgown, but then I noticed her blank, unseeing stare. She was sleepwalking.

Closer and closer she came. Knowing she could not get out of the house on her own, I simply let her advance to the door. She stared at it, her eyes glazed over with the wandering of her unconscious mind.

She had indeed taken a bath, for her black hair hung loose and damp to her waist and her exposed shoulders still gleamed with moisture. Since her own cloak was filthy, I took mine and approached her slowly. She did not react when I draped it over her and clasped it to her neckline. Even though she couldn't answer me, I began to talk to her softly.

"Where are you going madam?" I asked, using my most persuasive tone. "Your brother will miss you if you leave."

Her mouth moved silently. I frowned. People born mute did not move their mouths as if they had once been able to speak. This made the third time I had noticed her do it. I tried again.

"Madam Lescot? Answer me," I coaxed.

Slowly, her head turned. Her gimlet eyes stared into mine.

"Erik," she said plainly. Her voice sounded rusty and painful, even labored.

I smiled in satisfaction. Madam Lescot was not a true mute, but she had not been trying to deceive anyone. She hadn't known she could talk. Chagny had claimed her to be mute from birth, but it was now obvious this couldn't be true. What had happened to make her go silent?

"Yes, I'm Erik," I answered.

She looked back to the door, frowning.

"Where is the night watch?” Her voice cracked, making me wince. “He always stands at the door," she rasped, her eyes darting back and forth in evident apprehension, though still sightlessly. Only the things she feared would show themselves to her.

"You are in Erik's house Madam, there is no night watch," I replied soothingly while draping an arm around her shoulders. She felt so small, so thin… I would take her back to Christine's room. "Would you like to go to back to bed?"

As I spoke she leaned into me, her head falling against my shoulder with the trust of a small child. My instinct to protect weak and broken things hit me full force.

"No night watch," she repeated almost inaudibly. Her voice sounded better now though. "But if I fall asleep he'll come into my room." She chewed her bottom lip with swift aggression. A thick drop of blood fell onto my shirt and splattered. A terrible foreboding crept into me.

"Who will come into your room madam?"

"The administrator, he… touches me when I …fall asleep.” Her lips trembled. “I don't want to sleep,” she whispered desperately, her voice cracking again. “It isn’t safe to sleep.” Blood and tears now soaked my linen.

I felt sick.

"He cannot touch you here madam, you are safe,” I vowed softly. “You have come to stay with Erik and he won't let the administrator inside."

"Erik won't let him inside," she said, her eyes blinking rapidly. "Erik will protect me?" Hope raised her tone to a heart-breaking intensity.

"That's right, Erik is your guardian now," I agreed, a lump rising in my throat. "He is your guardian angel; no one will ever touch you again." I brushed the wet hair out of her eyes gently, feeling her lean even closer to me.
She had no reason not to accept that I would help her. De Chagny hadn’t had the time to poison her against me.

"My guardian angel...” Celeste gave a long, shuddering sigh. "God remembers me then. I thought He'd forgotten me." She pressed herself as close to me as possible, her good arm curling between us. Her hand clenched around my shirtfront feebly. "I can rest now," she murmured.

"Yes, you can. You can sleep as long as you want."

I led her back into her bedroom, pulling the sheets down for her to climb in. She obeyed the unspoken command and lay down, still clinging to my shirt. Gently, I pulled her hand away but did not let go. "Don't be afraid," I said, using the power of my voice. "Erik will stay with you."

"Mon ange..." she replied faintly, lapsing into French for the first time.

"Yes, your angel."

I stayed with her until she fully went back to sleep. It was hard to sit still. The plight of women everywhere to be submissive to evil men seemed especially plain in madam Lescot.

I wanted to find whoever had violated Celeste and strangle him. I wanted to strangle her husband, wherever he was, and I wanted to strangle the Vicomte for giving his only sister to a complete stranger. Had it been in my power I would have resurrected Philippe de Chagny to kill him as well.

It wasn't that I thought women any better than men. I grouped the entire human race together, but females were weaker and deserved gentler treatment. I, a beast by the standards of common humanity, was often moved to sympathy for the female of the species. They spent their lives either carrying young in their bellies or on their hips, and they had no control over their own bodies. They went from daughter to wife to mother, usually outliving their so-called protectors to live alone as widows. God certainly had his revenge on Eve. I doubted He cared what happened to the woman lying in Christine's bed.

But I cared. It didn’t matter to me what God thought anymore. I was responsible for Celeste Lescot now and woe to any who got in my way.
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Rossignol